


Good Night

by yesdrizella



Category: Venture Bros
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Flashback, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesdrizella/pseuds/yesdrizella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It ended in 1986.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Night

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that this pairing is improbable, but I was bored one day, and this song came on, and the visual followed. Let me dream!

Hamilton opens his eyes, roused from sleep, because he feels the tip of something wet and spongey on his back, immediately followed by a man-sized, albeit non-threatening weight. He doesn't remember passing out, but he does remember what may have caused it. He remembers the crash of mouths, the undulations, and the lovely high arch of David's back as he came.

"What are you—" He fidgets, unable to turn and look. The spongey material tickles, and he now has a better idea of what is being done to him. "Are you writing on me?"

"Do you remember when I mentioned that muppet movie I'll be in?" Only David's voice, with that dignified, sensual blend of calamity and sanity, can make words like "muppet" sound poetic. "I've been contracted to write some songs, which I haven't done. Until now. It's as though I've woken up from the most marvelous, miraculously inspiring dream, and I simply had to write down the madness in my head."

David could be sweet. Hamilton knows this. He had known this earlier, and he had known this many times throughout the course of their purely sexual affair. It is almost enough to forget the recent (and extremely upsetting) rumor that David's name – and not his own - was one of many tossed around to replace the current Sovereign. "Could you not find any paper?"

"No, I couldn't." David continues to write. "That's a lie, actually. I found stationery. But I wanted you to be awake for this."

In no mood to argue, Hamilton instead asks, "Do you write songs on the backs of all the men you sleep with?"

"Not usually. Though I did write most of "Suffragette City" on Mick Jagger."

Hamilton measures excitement with caddy spoons. He enjoys boring evenings at home, grading papers, drinking wine, and designing robots. A man like David – a guileless bohemian with too much love to be evil, too much faith in humankind to be Sovereign – threatens this ordered life with his very existence. And yet Hamilton finds that he simply cannot shake off someone like David. No, he has to be careful. His plans are too important to be ruined by a potential broken heart.

"Hamilton?" A pen is capped. "It's finished. Would you like to hear it?"

Unlike most of the Guild, Hamilton does not think much of David's music, preferring the sounds of Wagner over his noise machines. But what is it that Richard had told him when he began courting his too-young lab assistant? "Compromise is key." And Richard is right. Just hold on for a little longer, for a few more stolen moments. "Very well."

Hamilton feels fingers trace down the ridges of his spine. "There's such a sad love, deep in your eyes, a kind of pale jewel, opened and closed within your eyes…" A hand kneads his flank, and David haunts the room with his voice. "I'll place the sky within your eyes…"

David croons about mornings of gold and Valentine evenings, hums the parts he doesn't sing. By the song's end, Hamilton doesn't notice how tightly he clings to his pillow until he can smell the gear grease from his bionic arms.

"This song of yours." Hamilton pauses, not because he is choosing his words carefully, but because he already has them prepared, and he doesn't much relish the idea of sounding them out. Should he act disinterested? Intrigued? Resigned? "What inspired you, precisely?"

"Is that your way of asking if the song is about you?" David's sedate laughter is like a stab through the air. "My songs are about all my loves. So yes, I suppose it is."

"Oh, not _again_. Don't give me that Warholian rubbish about how everyone should love everyone."

"Pardon?"

Hamilton is ready to counter with a "for what?", remark on how maddeningly exhausting he and other 'artist types' were, but then he rewinds the conversation in his head and, for once, listens. David said his songs were about all of his loves. All of them.

Oh. _Oh._

"Good night, David."

There is a long silence. Hamilton senses lips on his hair. Then the mattress unsags. Footsteps echo, clothing pulled on, and a door opens.

"Good night."

The next morning, Hamilton, alone, strides into the bathroom and notices there are no lyrics on his back at all. Only doodles of stars, aliens, lightning bolts, and some curving, abstract shapes. It takes him nearly a month to scrub off every last detail.

**Author's Note:**

> I expect that anyone reading this is familiar with David Bowie's work, but just in case - the muppet movie is _Labyrinth_ and the song is "As the World Falls Down."


End file.
